


A Thorough Education

by SweetSorcery



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: 1800s, 19th Century, Age of Sail, Character Death Fix, Double Entendre, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, Hero Worship, Inappropriate Erections, Loyalty, M/M, Male Slash, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Romance, Shyness, Slash, Teaching, The Royal Navy, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-06 23:39:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10347213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/pseuds/SweetSorcery
Summary: Wellard has been dreaming, both night and day, ever since Hobbs saved his life. It's making it hard to pay attention during his lessons.(Setting: after "Retribution")





	

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: I found this in my WIPs, complete and practically ready to post! I barely remember writing it, and I know I've never posted it anywhere, so it's possible some kinky sea sprites did it. :)
> 
> Please do not archive this story elsewhere and please, no translations!
> 
> © and ™ of characters, locations, and some story lines - the estate of C. S. Forester, A & E and possibly other entities; this story was written solely for the entertainment of other fans; no profit is made and no harm or infringement intended.

_The smoke of battle lifted briefly, gunpowder, blood and screams thick in the atmosphere. The enemy stood no chance, outgunned and outskilled. The stern chaser's broad barrel was outlined threateningly against the blue sea and bluer horizon; a determined voice was shouting orders, taking control of the men. A looming shape pulling at ropes. Strong, capable hands stroking briefly over the cannon like a caress, plunging the depths of the barrel, snapping the flintlock at the touch-hole. Impenetrable eyes blazing when, with a determined pull, the gun was positioned, aimed… fired!_

Groaning, Henry Wellard woke and sat up in a single action. His heart was racing, his shirt clung to his chest uncomfortably and, worst of all, he was sticky with the effects of his dream. A dream he had been having nightly for over a week now.

"Another nightmare, Henry?" asked a similarly tousled-looking boy to his right.

Wellard guiltily avoided his eyes. "Sorry, I did not mean to wake you, Kenneth."

"No matter." A yawn, and Kenneth Blake swung himself from his hammock. "Must be getting up about now anyway. I'll be on watch shortly."

Wellard stroked his hair back from his sweat-damp forehead. He had successfully avoided answering the question posed to him nearly each single morning, but could not avoid having his fellow midshipman notice the state of him.

"You look a mess, Henry."

Wellard sighed. "I shall have a quick wash."

Blake chuckled. It had become a joke in the middies' berth that Wellard was the cleanest man in the service. Though he supposed that, if he woke up in a sweat each morning, he might take to water more frequently as well.

Wellard was used to the way he had to rise from his hammock by now - curled in on himself, quickly reaching for his breeches and climbing into them before anyone could get a closer look. Even so, this morning he stumbled a little and, reaching for the edge of his hammock, afforded Blake a clear view of his mishap.

Blake grinned. "Happens to all of us, you know."

Wellard flushed with shame. "It does?" he asked in honest surprise. He wondered whether any other man onboard _Renown_ 'suffered' from his kind of dream also. Not the same one exactly, he was quite sure of that. Only he was that wretched.

"Of course it does!" Blake confirmed. Then he grew serious and looked around. "Henry," he said, uncharacteristically bashful.

"What?" Wellard frowned at his friend's odd behaviour.

"I… if you wanted, I could… I mean, we could… I can help you. I suppose."

"Help me? I don't…" Wellard's eyes widened. "You don't mean--"

Blake's hollow cheeks flushed. "Forget I said anything. Sorry." He flushed further. "I like you, so I thought--"

"I like you too, Kenneth." Wellard avoided his friend's eyes. "But--"

"No, I understand. Truly." Kenneth chuckled, and when Wellard looked at him again, he looked as if the entire embarrassing conversation had not happened at all.

That was just as well with Wellard. "We had better get dressed," he said quickly.

Blake agreed, shrugging into his clothes, while Wellard went in search of some water to clean himself off with. He knew it would not help his memory of the dream, or rather - dreams. But if his thoughts were filthy, his body did not need to reflect that.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Some time later, Wellard went up on deck, just in time for his day's lessons with Lt Bush. He wished his superior officer a good morning, and then promptly wished himself anywhere but the _Renown_ at his tutor's next words.

"Now that we have covered the basics as far as I can teach them, Mr Wellard, I believe it is time for some practical lessons with an expert." Bush adjusted his bicorn.

"Aye, sir," Wellard said dutifully, but the dread must have been plain in his voice, for Bush raised a brow at him.

"Are you quite all right, Mr Wellard?"

"Aye, sir. Forgive me. A bad night, that is all."

Bush nodded. "Very well." He frowned, but continued, "I think it best to have you spend some time with Mr Hobbs. He is a better gunner than I would ever make."

Wellard, though he had known the words were coming, was undecided between flushing and paling, so his face took on a blotchy appearance. He looked very worried indeed.

Bush noticed, of course. "I think you will find his behaviour towards you more civil now, with Captain Sawyer gone."

"Aye, aye, sir." What else could he say? He was terrified by the prospect of a lesson with Hobbs. And worse, he was excited about it beyond reason. He groaned inwardly, wishing he had simply died from that wound he had sustained during the taking of the ship. It would have been so much easier. Instead, it had all begun right there.

"Below with you then, Mr Wellard. The captain has kindly donated the use of his cabin for your lesson. I expect Mr Hobbs is impatiently waiting for you there. "

"Sir!" Wellard saluted, turned on his heel, and somehow managed to make his way down into the hull without tripping over his feet.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When he arrived below, he found Hobbs leaning with his forearm against the frame of the stern window, looking thoughtfully out to sea. The man had discarded his coat and hat, and his white shirt made his tanned skin stand out even more. He was all contrasts with the warm blond of his hair and his cold blue eyes - eyes which made Wellard want to alternately burst into undignified tears and swoon. He would do neither. He was there to learn a lesson, nothing more.

Hobbs seemed as forbidding as ever. And even if the things Wellard's mind conjured up were allowed, Wellard knew it would be mad to think Hobbs might have the slightest interest in him. The fact that the man had taken care of him after finding him dying in Sawyer's quarters, had carried him to the sickbay and demanded that Dr Clive took care of him right away, meant nothing. He had merely wanted to ensure Wellard would be alive to tell the court who had pushed Sawyer into the hold.

And yet... Hobbs had never even suggested it after that day. He himself had not even used the words they had both thought to be Wellard's last against anyone.

"I wondered when you'd get here, Mr Wellard."

Wellard jolted, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming. "I was only just told you were waiting, Mr Hobbs."

"Best get on with it then, sir." Hobbs' face was expressionless.

Wellard sighed inwardly. Yes, civility was indeed the best he could hope for. He placed his hat on a crate and approached Hobbs.

"How much do you know about firing a cannon, Mr Wellard?" Hobbs was all business and seemed to avoid meeting Wellard's eyes.

Wellard resisted the temptation to declare that he knew he found nothing more exciting then to watch Hobbs doing so, and instead began to list what Lt Bush had explained to him about the process.

To his credit, Hobbs neither interrupted nor sneered. Finally he said, "Very well. We're not starting from nothing then." In Hobbs' terms, that might have been a compliment; Wellard tried hard not to smile. "Now I'll show you how to do it properly. Nothing like hands on experience, sir."

Wellard's eyes widened, and there was a nervous twitch low in his belly. "Mr Hobbs?" The man finally met Wellard's eyes, and a shiver ran down the boy's spine at the intensity of his gaze. _He's talking about firing a cannon, nothing else, you fool,_ Wellard told himself sternly.

"Obviously, we won't be firing the cannon. Takes more than the two of us to do it safely," Hobbs promptly declared. 

Wellard nodded dumbly. He had known that. But he found it hard to remember even things he knew well when he was around Hobbs.

"Starting at the beginning, Mr Wellard, get that powder keg over there and place it by the cannon."

The midshipman hastened to obey. When he made it back, setting the powder down carefully, he looked up to meet Hobbs' eyes, now inscrutable again.

"What do we do first to prepare a gun for firing?" Hobbs asked, holding his gaze. Sunlight streamed in through the window, drawing focus to his almost unnaturally long lashes.

Swallowing, Wellard attempted to recall his lessons, lowering his eyes to the vicinity of Hobbs' midsection, and quickly dropping lower, only to rest on his strong thighs. "A bag of gunpowder is thrus… no, pushed down inside the barrel with a… a rod?" He blushed and quickly corrected himself. "Ram-rod, I mean."

Hobbs nodded. "And then?"

"A wad is placed inside?" Wellard tried.

"Inside what?"

Wellard looked up in surprise. "The… uh, the barrel, Mr Hobbs."

There was a twitch of a smile forcibly turned into a sneer on Hobbs' face. "What for, Mr Wellard?" 

"What for?" Wellard repeated stupidly. The man had not nearly smiled at him, had he?

"What is the function of the wad?" Hobbs asked, deliberately slowly, as if speaking to a child.

If he was less on edge, Wellard would have taken exception to that, but he had to admit that he truly was more than a little distracted. "I beg your pardon?"

Hobbs sighed. "Mr Wellard, why would you hold a bag of gunpowder in place with a wad?"

Wellard was about to respond when Hobbs began to roll up his shirt sleeves. His eyes were drawn to the movement, and while Hobbs slowly bared golden-skinned, muscular forearms, he looked on silently, save for his uneven breathing. He was mortified to find himself aroused by the sight of the man's bare arms, but could do nothing about his reaction. The memory of those same arms carrying him to the sickbay was vivid in his mind; so much so, he thought he could feel them now - warm and steady around him. He shifted to one side, closer to the barrel of the gun.

Hobbs, watching Wellard's distraction with a mixture of amusement and puzzlement, picked up a round shot and began to turn it over in his hands. He could hardly give the boy a more obvious hint, could he?

But contrary to Hobbs' expectations, Wellard's state worsened. He was breathing heavily by then, licking his lips repeatedly. It was really quite distracting. "Mr Wellard?" Hobbs asked, his tone unintentionally gentle.

Wellard stared at him as if he'd been woken from a dream.

"Is anything amiss, sir?" Hobbs' voice still lacked its former acidic undertone.

"My apologies, Mr Hobbs. I… I don't feel well." Wellard tried not to watch those strong hands stroking and turning over the iron ball, but it was mesmerising.

"It's a little hot today," Hobbs agreed diplomatically, though it was actually reasonably temperate. "Perhaps you should remove your coat, sir."

"No!" Wellard refused, too vehemently. He gulped. It was not as if his short reefer would cover up anything, were he called upon to step out from behind the cannon. "I mean yes, perhaps you are right." He shrugged off his short coat and laid it on a low chest behind him.

Hobbs watched Wellard's hesitant, clumsy movements and obvious embarrassment with interest. Could the boy still be scared of him? He did not recall giving him any reason to be, of late, but it was not as if they were used to dealing with each other under remotely normal circumstances. He was about to offer the midshipman the solution to his earlier question as a gesture of peace, when Wellard spoke.

"Is it the shot that is positioned in the barrel and then held in place by a wad?" Wellard asked hesitantly.

With a surprised huff of breath, Hobbs replied, "Very good." He was determined not to be charmed by the way Wellard's face lit up. "The fresh breeze seems to be doing you a lot of good, sir," he said kindly.

Wellard lowered his eyes, struggling with the threat of a smile. "Yes, so it would seem."

Puzzled, Hobbs wondered why the boy seemed to be… happy all of a sudden, but decided it could only be a good thing for their forced cooperation. "What happens next?" he asked, certain Wellard was once more on the right track and would find the process an easy one to recall.

Eager brown eyes looked up at him. "Oh, I… I do not know."

Hobbs looked surprised and somewhat disbelieving. "Let me show you then, sir."

Wellard swallowed hard as Hobbs stepped up very closely beside him and snapped open the touch-hole atop the barrel, then picked up a spike and passed it to him.

Hesitantly, Wellard took it with trembling fingers. "Mr Hobbs?"

"A spike like that is pushed down the touch-hole to break the powder bag, Sir," Hobbs explained, enclosing the slender hand with his own and mimicking the task described. He immediately knew he had made a mistake, and told himself sternly to remain properly detached.

"Of course," Wellard croaked, his throat suddenly gone dry.

Hobbs stilled, explaining softly, "Fine powder is then poured into the hole, preparatory to firing."

"Yes." Wellard's breathing was shallow and much too fast, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between their joined hands on the spike and the slightly open stern window, as if contemplating his escape.

Understanding bloomed inside Hobbs, now that he was so close to Wellard, and his own pattern of respiration suffered for it. Could it be? After all that had occurred between them? He swallowed hard, deciding to test his theory. "Next, the gun is run out through the gunport by these ropes… here." He reached around Wellard to grasp said ropes, his arm brushing a slender hip, pleased by how easily the boy fit into the circle of his arms.

A whimper Wellard could not quite suppress encouraged Hobbs further. He extracted the spike from the clammy fingers and let it slide down beside the cannon, only to cover the fingers once more and fold them around the metal protruding at the touch-hole. "The gun is fired by producing a spark with the flintlock. Right here."

Wellard struggled for words and breath, forcing himself not to lean back into the solid body at his back. Any moment now, Hobbs would surely let him go, and he could run and suffer his humiliation somewhere in silence. But it was not to be.

"Of course, as you know, Sir, the gun recoils back with great force, restrained only by the breeching ropes attached to the carriage." With those words, Hobbs released the rope and wrapped his arm around Wellard's middle, pulling him back hard against himself to illustrate his words.

This time, unable to hide his surprise and the shock of arousal jolting his entire body, Wellard moaned unashamedly, growing limp in Hobbs' embrace when he realised he was not alone in his predicament.

"Rather dangerous, Mr Wellard." Hobbs voice had a rough, husky edge. "One must be quite certain the ropes are reliable and strong enough to take the force of the recoil."

Wellard whimpered. "Quite."

"One must have enough faith to surrender responsibility for that moment." Hobbs' hand slowly moved over Wellard's knuckles, and up one long, trembling arm in shirt-sleeves. "You do have faith, sir?"

Wellard closed his eyes. "I do." He rested the side of his head ever so slightly against Hobbs' cheek to convince himself that, this time, he was not dreaming.

"You have much more than that," Hobbs continued, his deep voice rough with emotion, his breath warm against the shell of Wellard's ear. "You have trust, and resilience, and courage."

Wellard swallowed, not daring to open his eyes. How he had longed to hear Hobbs say such things about him.

"The captain knew it too, Mr Wellard. Somewhere in his bedevilled mind, he did. As we all did. As I do." Hobbs' hand closed on Wellard's shoulder, and he spun the boy in his arms. He held him with his back against the cannon, not releasing him. "And loyalty, sir. That is one of your most admirable qualities."

Wellard's eyes had flown open, and he met the now warm gaze. "And yours, Mr Hobbs," he whispered.

They shared a depth of memories and understanding in that moment, and both came out of it with a slight smile.

"There is something else about you I admire greatly, sir," Hobbs confided in a low, husky voice, his hand raised to stroke Wellard's flushed cheek.

"Yes?" Wellard asked softly, leaning into the palm.

Hobbs looked very pleased with the reaction. He gave a hesitant smile and whispered, "Everything." And then he leaned in and kissed the boy's trembling lips.

Grateful for the support of the cannon at his back, and the solid strength of the arms encircling him and keeping him firmly but gently pressed against it, Wellard sighed against the demanding mouth. Demanding, though not forceful, allowing him to draw back should he wish it. Nothing could be further from his mind, and he raised his arms and wrapped them around Hobbs' neck, his fingers burrowing into honey blond hair.

Meeting no resistance, Hobbs tilted his head, fitting their lips even more perfectly together, slowly teasing the willing mouth open and tasting the sweetness which awaited within. He suddenly knew how a man must feel after a trek through a desert when he at last reached an oasis. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter, or been more rejuvenating for his tired, careworn soul, than this boy.

Without conscious thought, both of them gripped the other more tightly, heat flowing from one into the other, nervous and excited energy leaving neither in any doubt that their needs were equal.

"Mr Wellard," Hobbs gasped against the soft, wet lips, taking a deep breath. "If you do not care to be ravished right here in the captain's cabin--"

"But I do," Wellard whispered. "Please, Mr Hobbs. I… I have dreamed of this," he admitted, flushing but knowing it would be hardly noticeable in his already flustered state. "Of you."

Hobbs blinked, his hand in the thick, dark queue, holding the boy's head far enough away to meet his feverish eyes. "You have," he stated, astonished.

"Oh yes." Wellard bit his lip and, tasting Hobbs' kiss there, moaned softly. "Since you saved my life, I have… thought of little else."

Hobbs caressed the side of the boy's neck, tilting his chin up and searching his eyes. "I never dared hope, sir." He was astonished by how broken he sounded but, after Wellard's confession, it was only fair the midshipman should know how he felt.

"Would you…" Wellard's lashes fluttered closed for a moment, but then he met the blue eyes fixed on his once more. "Kiss me again? Please."

This time, Hobbs did not hold back, and the whimpers spilling into his mouth from those sweet lips fired his blood. He allowed his tongue to show Wellard's mouth what he had in mind with him, and when the boy awkwardly but eagerly sucked the muscle deeper into his mouth, he knew the message had been understood. He shifted them until he could insinuate a hand between them, stroking it lightly across the centre of Wellard's narrow chest and down. "I fear we have no time for leisurely exploration," he gasped. "There is great danger in this."

"I understand." Wellard inhaled sharply when a large hand cupped him firmly, and moaned when it pressed down.

Hobbs pulled him into his one-armed embrace more tightly, moving towards the bench and keeping Wellard close, until he could sit down.

Needing no instruction in this, Wellard climbed across his lap, not breaking the kiss, his own slender hand joining Hobbs' between them. A few moments later, they had managed to undo the plaquets of their breeches and thrust their hands inside in search of hot flesh.

Hobbs stifled a groan when Wellard's hand closed around him, a little clumsily but determined. He grasped Wellard's hot shaft in his own hand and, finding the boy leaking profusely already, managed to stroke him smoothly and evenly.

Wellard bit his lip, his eyes closed in ecstasy.

"Look at me, sir," Hobbs instructed. "I want to know you will remember this."

"Oh, I shall." Wellard assured him huskily, then moaned at a particularly forceful stroke. "Until next time?" he asked boldly.

"Indeed. Until next time," Hobbs responded, his eyes - deep blue and more intense than ever - boring deep into Wellard's. "When we shall take our time, and I shall make amends for every cruel word I have spoken to you in the past."

Wellard stilled, his eyes soft and his lips curling up in the slightest of smiles. "I have forgiven you long ago."

Hobbs returned the smile hesitantly. "I shall make amends all the same."

"Please do," Wellard whispered, leaning down for another kiss. When the hand folded around him intensified its strokes, he did not break the kiss, allowing Hobbs' tongue to play against his own while he was brought to a forceful, shattering climax right there, in Hobbs' lap.

Hobbs slowed his strokes gradually, then let go. He allowed the boy's head to rest on his shoulder while he pushed both hands inside the opened breeches and cupped his backside. He thrust upwards into the slim hand stroking him, imagining himself entering the tight warmth he could feel inches from his fingertips. That thought, along with tender lips exhaling damply against his neck, had him stifling a groan of completion within moments, and only when he closed his hand over Wellard's to draw it from his sticky breeches did the boy stop his strokes.

"I know I may not use it," Hobbs began hesitantly, breathing heavily. "But what is your Christian name?"

Wellard raised his face from the side of his neck and said softly in his ear, "Henry. And I wish you would use it when you are able to whisper it to me."

Hobbs smiled, turning his face to kiss a heated cheek. "So I shall."

Wellard was about to ask a question of his own when they heard footsteps approaching the cabin.

Staring at each other for one panicked moment, they scrambled to their feet, hurrying back to the forgotten cannon and straightening themselves out as best they could before the door swung open, admitting Hornblower.

The man looked back and forth between them, his eyes narrowed.

"Captain Hornblower, sir," Wellard muttered, attempting to regain some kind of composure.

Hornblower nodded at him. "Is everything in order, Mr Wellard?"

"Aye, sir. Lesson's finished."

"Is it indeed?" Hornblower's gaze flicked to the gunner.

Hobbs did not shift or in any way betray his nervousness. In his head, he was assembling his response, should the captain make an actual accusation. He would of course take the blame entirely, claiming he had forced himself upon Wellard. He was taken aback when Wellard spoke up again.

"Captain, if I may… I feel there is more yet I might learn from Mr Hobbs."

Staring at the boy in awe and some degree of shock, Hobbs blinked, then looked to Hornblower, who had some difficulty working his way through the situation, by the looks of his flushed complexion. "I… uh, yes," he said hesitantly. "Mr Hobbs, do you also feel that further lessons at the cannon would benefit Mr Wellard?"

"I believe they would, captain," Hobbs said as unconcernedly as he could, hoping the pounding of his heart was not so loud as to be heard when he opened his mouth to speak.

Hornblower assessed Wellard carefully and, finding no evidence of harassment in the flushed face, only a slightly disconcerting hint of a smile, nodded. "Very well. I will speak to Mr Bush." He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortably at Hobbs, who was slipping on his coat and buttoning it up. "Let me impress upon you both, in the meantime, the importance of confining these… er, lessons to my cabin."

Hobbs' mouth dropped open. His respect for the man grew by leaps and bounds. "Aye, sir."

Wellard agreed hurriedly but, as he was about to leave, Hornblower said, "One moment, Mr Wellard." He looked at the gunner. "Mr Hobbs - perhaps during your next lesson, you might care to cover the importance of cleaning the guns between uses to remove glowing residue. We can't have unscheduled explosions on the ship, after all." He glanced meaningfully at the dishevelled and rather damp appearance of the two men's breeches.

Both of them exchanged looks of alarm and shrugged off their coats again to drape them casually over their arms in front of their bodies.

Hobbs suppressed a smirk. "We were about to get to that, captain, when you arrived. I shall time the next lesson more carefully." He met Wellard's eyes again, and the boy lowered his eyes and blushed.

"Good man." Hornblower smiled for a moment. Having noted the affectionate exchange, he said, "I believe Mr Wellard is in safe hands."

"He is, Captain Hornblower, you have my word on that," Hobbs assured him.

Wellard was smiling when he left the cabin, followed at an appropriate distance by Hobbs. Suddenly, he was very glad that the man had saved his life.

 

THE END


End file.
